


Rôti Sans Pareil

by cartouche



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Case Fic, Hannibal is a BAMF as usual, Hannigram - Freeform, I Tried, Insane!Will, M/M, Murder Husbands, Violence and Gore, What Can I Say?, Will Knows, ah well, and stop writing cannibalism, but then cannibalism ..., i need to get out more, ohhh yeaahhh, this could even be fluffy if you really squint, trigger warnings for blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-11 16:01:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cartouche/pseuds/cartouche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will doesn't know how many more of these he can do. He takes slivers of their souls to patch up his own, but they're murderers and maybe he is too. Maybe it's been him all along, because god knows they look at him like it's true. He can hear the whispers with every new body, feel the eyes that turn to him and say with hungry mouths, <i>It was you.</i> Sometimes he believes them and it's a sad existence that carries on this way, interjected by the echoing thuds of the second hand on his watch and the smell of roasting flesh. He doesn't even know who he is anymore, let alone some fanatical killer.</p><p>He feels like a time bomb, slowly ticking down, and no one is sure quite when he's set to go off. They treat him delicately enough. <i>Handle with care,</i> the box says, <i>keep Will Graham this way up</i>. He wonders, half hearted, when the question stopped being, <i>How sane is Will Graham?</i>, and started being, <i>How many more cases can we squeeze out of him before he breaks completely?</i></p><p>Wind him up and watch him go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rôti Sans Pareil

**Author's Note:**

> Anthrophilia - (n.) Parasitic attraction to humans

The duct tape is tacky against his fingers, sticking lightly to his sweaty skin. She's so beautiful like this, he thinks, eyes stretched open as she struggles weakly against his bonds. He will exalt her, make her more than she could ever be, align her with the celestial gods.

_This is my design._

He could smell the coppery tang of blood heavy in the air. This place knew death. Her eyes were wide, the whites shining with fear. He ran a gentle finger along her jaw, shushing her quietly. He wished he knew her name, but she was just a face, pretty and blonde, eyes a million fractals of every blue possible. Her death would be quick, purposeful, he doesn’t get pleasure from it, but knows it is necessary, a sacrifice that must be made. His hands slot round her pretty little neck as if they were made for it, slim and slender pale skin. He wonders if she knows what will happen after her long lashes flutter shut, after her heart slows and slows and eventually, with one last thud, stops. He wonders about her name (he wishes he knew it, knew her, but she’s just a pawn), about the people who know it, who know her, love her even. Does she have siblings? A boyfriend? She’s pretty enough. A surge of jealousy rises through him but he quells it. This is not a murder of rage.

_This is my design._

He watches her head slump after a while and he hopes his fingers will not leave ugly dark bruises on her flawless skin. Is she popular? Will she have friends that miss her, people that will mourn? It doesn’t matter, her purpose is beyond them now. She will fulfil her duty, sate those higher than himself. The blade glints wickedly in the stark fluorescent light and he admires the sharp edge to the copper, hours of careful sharpening, the cuts on his hands show it. She is still warm when he unbinds her, lowers her to the floor, making sure he leaves no trace. The chalk markings smudge, but he can't avoid that. It would take two for it to be perfect but he can't afford the risk. No one understands like he does anyway, they would laugh, point, lock him away. The sickle is sharp as it pierces her skin, blood welling sluggishly from the cuts, sticky and crimson. Death.

_This is my design._

If he could, he would build a ziggurat to scrape the sky, temples and altars to properly worship. He hopes they will understand the limitations this time oppresses him with. He makes do with the markings, positioning her lifeless body in the center, an offering. The final touch is added. Two holes bored into her skull, greyish brains mangled, before the curling horns are slotted in. He steps back to admire his handiwork. They will, he thinks, be pleased. A good disciple.

_This is my de-_

A warm arm hidden beneath expensive fabric wraps around his back and he can practically _feel_ Jack's disapproval as his vision swims and his body trembles. He leans in to it, instinct working over common sense and he hears Katz gasp because Will Graham, _poor broken_ Will Graham _never_ lets anyone in and suddenly he's fighting a rising tide of blood that's going to drown him, making him gasp and gasp and laugh because he's drowning in air-

'Will.' He focuses on that voice, every smooth lilt and the inflection of an exotic accent. He focuses on his breathing, slow and steady, keep it steady, (in, 2, 3, out, 2, 3, in 2, 3, out, 2 ...3 …) until his heart stops stuttering and his senses are (half) working again.

_It is 8:34 am. I am in New Windsor, Maryland. My name is Will Graham._

For a moment deep brown eyes stare into his soul and lips curl into the hint of a smile and he can make out the tiny flowing pattern carved into the (blood) red silk of his tie and every fiber on his lapel and for the tiniest fraction of a moment he can lose himself to the faint smells of expensive cologne (without a ship on the bottle). He thinks about his hands, wrapped tightly around a neck, veins popping and eyes bulging, squeeze, squeeze and _ssh it'll all be over soon_. And then Jack steps into their bubble and it deflates with an audible sigh that he's vaguely aware may have come from his own lips. Jack is heavy and crude and radiating displeasure and Will can tell without even looking that he wants answers not a breakdown. Fragile china, and Will shakes but he can't tell whether it's from laughter or just his broken mind and the whispers sound louder now, a roaring cacophony. He smells like long hours and a poor diet and his nose wrinkles. He cuddles in closer to the warmth surrounding him, clinging to it like a drowning man clings to a plank of wood, knowing those deliciously dark eyes are already glaring haughtily at who ever so dares to glance, eyebrows raised, in their direction.

_Sshh, shh, it'll all be over soon..._

Jack coughs.

Reluctantly, Will peels himself out of those firm arms and turns to him, fingers rising to rub at his eyes, massaging his eyelids gently, harshly, gouging at pupils that see too much and don't see enough. He idly wonders if the dark circles swallowing his eyes will ever go away.

'Well?' He half wishes, feeble and miserable, that the animosity between the two men wasn't quite so great. He can feel the twinge of a headache being born inside his thalamus, the mounting pressure behind his eyes. Empathy, a blessing and a curse. He places a reassuring hand on the sleeve of an over protective arm. Jack bares his teeth and growls, hackles raised and Will can't move because he's prey, fight, flight, freeze.

'He's a devout religious follower of old mythologies.' Jack snorts and Will winces. The muscles in the arm tense, hard as marble. There's something living behind Will's eyelids, laughing and jeering, wearing the face of a dead man. He should know, he put 10 bullets in his chest. Bang, bang, bang. The blood is warm against his fingers and smudging his glasses. 'Judging by the symbols probably Sumerian or Babylonian. He's basing his kills on the zodiac, an invention of early astronomers who thought the gods resided in the stars. The symbol there,' He gestures at the mutilated corpse while studying the floor at his feet and the exit sign over the door and the exact colour of the fire extinguisher. Two swirling lines joined in a sharp point. 'Is for Aries, the first sign. The ram. Hence the abattoir,' The chill and the dead carcasses hanging strung up by hooks. The smell clinging to his clothes that he was sure would never really go away. He needs to get out of here, scrub at his hands until they are raw and baptise his clothes in a font of fire. Eyes bore into him and he twitches and frowns and tries to focus. 'And the horns.' Two beautiful, curling rams horns, the ends buried bloodily into her skull. 'My guess is she's probably born under the sign.'

'He knew her?'

Will shakes his head. 'No. To him she is merely ... A sacrifice. A pawn knocked off the board in a bigger game of chess. He's offering her up to his deities in order to appease them. He's used traditional rites, chalk circles, incense, you'll probably find the incisions were made by a copper weapon, a dagger or sickle. You're looking for someone young, obsessed with the stars and ancient astronomy, who has enough time to plan all of this carefully.'

A pause.

'How many star signs are there?' His fingers twitch and spasm, clutching at opulent material, his heart speeding up painfully and his eyes refuse to even look at Jack. ' _Will?_ '

'12.' A raspy whisper that settles into a ball of dread in his stomach. Jack swears quietly, the sound barely audible over the pounding in his ears. He instinctively leans closer into soft fabric, closing his eyes against the confusion of the world. There's a dark place in his mind, an endless chasm, a black hole engulfing everything, light, matter, gravity. Will stands at the point-of-no-return, and Jack makes him stare into the abyss. His nails dig into his palm, hard and he wishes he could feel something, the dark crescent bruises buried into his skin.

'And the next sign?' He pauses, obviously too long for Jack's liking. Hell, he thinks, must be nice this time of year. 'Will, _the next sign?_ ' Images of the girl, bound and struggling, flash through his mind. He raises his hands and grips her throat, squeezing, squeezing, _sshh, it's going to be al-_

'Taurus. The bull.' The accent flows like water against his ears and Will attempts a nod, a weak smile that is more just a bare of teeth, a warning. He wants to rock, back and forwards, back and forwards, but he is broken enough as it is with out anyone else knowing. He settles for clinging to his anchor, slowly sinking beneath the waves until he drowns. 'Now if you will excuse us, I believe you have tortured poor Will enough for one day.'

Jack doesn't look pleased as he is bundled into silks and cashmere, a fragile tea cup, and walked slowly out of the abattoir, but something tells him he won't argue. Will is his favourite set of china after all, it would be a shame for him to chip. A hysterical laugh bubbles between his lips, spilling over into the world as he is positioned gently inside the soft leather of a car. Soft lips anchor him to the tatters of his reality as the engine purrs into a roar, vibrating beneath him. A mongoose that hides when the snakes slither by.

The voices in his head quiet down, whispering snidely.

* * *

The next one is just as gruesome, a young man, thick curly brown hair that reminds him somehow of his own messy locks, tangled from nightmares and smoothed by long, (surgeon’s) artist’s fingers. Silver moonlight plays across the strong plains of his body, and Will dreams of feathered stags in a feverish sleep that leaves his eyes bloodshot and his skin sweat slicked. The body is strong and lifeless eyes still hold a stubborn dull gleam, even in death. A true Taurean, headstrong and down to earth, calloused hands from manual labour (so very different to his, artists, surgeons, long and smooth). He's been forced, posthumously, inside the vulva of the young heifer, back carved with a familiar horned circle. Taurus is ruled by the goddess of sexuality after all.

_I raise the sickle and plunge it carefully into his flesh, slicing out my intended patterns, symbols that will prove my dedication._

_This is my design._

The chalk has all but faded after the rain, but Will can still pick out the constellations of the zodiac, white smudges against the emerald grass of the grazing field. It is clinical, same as before. There is no perverse pleasure to be found in the unnatural mating of man and bovine and for that at least, Will is grateful.

_I position them carefully, faces pointed to the rising sun. The rain will wash away any careless mistakes I have made, will ensure my worship can continue. The stars above me match my drawings, perfect replicas, as the finishing touches are made._

_This is my design._

Somewhere, in a part of himself Will has not yet come to terms with, he longs for warmth and coffee and three piece suits and dark eyes. But he has his patients, his work, can not always drop everything and come running, though selfishly Will wishes he could. All he can do is think of dogs and boat engines and the soothing purgatory he finds at the bottom of a whisky bottle. Jack is more relaxed, a sated lion flicking its tail at pesky flies. He tells him all he knows. It's not as if he has a choice. Jack plays his cards well, too well and Will always has a terrible poker face without him to hide behind. As the last words tumble, too hurried, from his lips, he hears the low purr of a car engine. Relief rushes through him. Dark warmth, coffee suit, three piece eyes, safe.

_He is nothing more than meat to me, a worthy ritual. I do not know him and I have no need to. The Gods will smile fortune on me today._

_This is my design._

Vaguely he picks up on Jack's terse greeting, reflected smoothly back at him.

'Will? I need to know, why now?' The world spins. His head pounds. Jack puts up with the strong arms around his waist for an answer. His voice sounds distant, a tinny replay. He grips hard at the edge, clawing his hands into the sodden ground collapsing beneath him, but his fingers falter and he slips, once, twice, and then he's falling, tumbling off a precipice, the darkness rushing up to meet him like an old friend.

'Something's changed in his life. He's offering them up as penance, to try and reconcile. I think ...' There's an audible silence as everyone stops, 30 eyes all watching him, boring into him, carving their expectations under his skin. 'I think ...' He breathes in deeply, inhaling expensive cologne and books and herb seasonings. Rosemary, his favourite, of course. If he's wrong a killer goes undetected. Another victim dies. Another beautiful murder, an exquisite show just for him and his sanity shatters, just a fraction more. There is water, leaking through the cracks and Will wonders what happens when the dam breaks. 'I think he's ill, terminally. Maybe cancer or something that's developed recently. He believes that by appeasing his deities they will spare his life ...' A pause and then sound again, the click of a photographer, the rustle of body bags, Jack barking out orders. Will breathes (in, 2, 3) and collapses, saved only by gloved hands and he lets them steer him away, rubbing at his eyes as if he can scrub his brain clean too, free it of the images that plague him, that wait patiently during the day and haunt him in his dreams. He's shaking, maybe violently, he's too juddery to tell, until there are warm hands and his dogs and he can finally, finally forget.

* * *

The next one is worse. Will doesn't know how many more of these he can do. He takes slivers of their souls to patch up his own, but they're murderers and maybe he is too. Maybe it's been him all along, because god knows they look at him like it's true. He can hear the whispers with every new body, feel the eyes that turn to him and say with hungry mouths _It was you._. Sometimes he believes them and it's a sad existence that carries on this way, interjected by the echoing thuds of the second hand on his watch and the smell of roasting flesh. He doesn't even know who he is any more, let alone some fanatical killer.

He feels like a time bomb, slowly ticking down, and no one is sure quite when he's set to go off. They treat him delicately enough. _Handle with care,_ the box says, _keep Will Graham this way up_.

Twins, his brain echoes numbly, Gemini. At least Jack let him stay, comforting reassurances and kind smiles that never seem to reach his eyes. He protects Will, chases the horrors away. Jack thinks he's detrimental, a fracture in his favourite mug. Jack is detrimental.

_I cut them, precisely, into perfect halves, each symmetrical reflections. They are not twins in body, but they will become them. I join them, carefully, using my needle as a paintbrush, stitching two halves into a whole that was never meant to be._

_This is my design._

The patterns are drawn in their blood this time, no more rushed, but more primal. It makes an (un)pleasant shiver run down Will's spine. Warm hands chase it away. Somewhere Zeller whispers about sick fucks. Will wonders if he falls into that category. Of course he does. The work is brutal, and he's clearly no surgeon, but there is a persistence Will ~~admires~~ abhors. The black thread stands out against their pale skin, and Will turns away, unable to look at the ~~beauty~~ monstrosity. He's there, of course he is, holding Will as he babbles words he's not thinking and anchoring Will to the tattered reality he’s forced to exist in. Jack radiates a clouding disgust that clogs his brain and slows his thoughts, and if Will were anyone else he would tell him to go, to leave but this is Jack and he’s Will and this is the way it will always be, Jack working him to the brink and Will clinging to him in an attempt not to fall.

They play their parts, good pawns under the hand of some greater chess master. Death is the ~~only~~ simple way out.

‘What is this Will?’ He demands answers Will can’t give. Blindly he gropes for suits and accents and dark, dark eyes. He's there, of course he is, he always is. There's a hunger in those eyes and he wants to look away but he's addicted and besides , he knows the hunger is in his own eyes too, drowned in blue. ‘What kind of crazy? What are we looking at here?’ He calculates the reward of lashing out at Jack, but decides against it. Mouse does not chase cat, fly does not catch spider.

‘I’ve told you. He’s ill and these are his peace offerings. He’s using heavy Babylonian symbolism.’ Jack swells.

‘He cut two people in half and sewed them together Will! I need more from you!’

‘I can’t tell you what I don’t know.’ He’s distracted for a moment by Zeller and Price, reporting on fingerprints and victims names and path reports and Will reaches unseeing for comfort, a blind man in a world of colour. And then he’s there, soft and solid and undoubtedly real. Sometimes Will wonders if he’s the only thing that is really there, not just another figment of his twisted imagination, a product of the voices inside him. He breathes him in and feels the darkness ~~grow~~ recede slightly, enough for the world to clear. The bodies, grey in the chilly twilight, grin at him, milky eyes and crusted blood. Maybe, just maybe he lost it years ago and all this is a coping mechanism. Maybe they locked him up and he retreated to live in a dusty corner of his mind, one where he can save lives and play the hero. Maybe he is a cat pretending to be a mouse and maybe that dam welling up in his mind had burst long ago. Will doesn't know any more. And he doesn't want to, as long as there are always arms for him to run to, ready to be patched back to together (But he's a jigsaw, isn't he, and he's lost some of his pieces, never to be whole but it doesn't matter because he will fill his holes with hunger).

In the darkness the nightmares come.

Jack is looking at him. More precisely _them_ (Will ignores the giddy feeling that rushes through him at the thought of being his equal, a part of his life, even if he's just fooling himself because he can't compare). For a moment he thinks he's going to drag them apart, but he just watches, blatantly disgusted, watches entwined arms, and close bodies and steady breathing and the slow glide of soft lips down his neck, soft, softer, softest. There is a careful scrape of teeth against his skin, the flicker of a tongue and his knees buckle because he can hardly cope having all his wonderful, fiery intensity focused on him, and he's unworthy but the lips don't seem to understand that and then there are hands moving and he should pull back, he knows he should, because of Jack, but it is futile because he's so needy it hurts. Silvering hair glides along his jaw and it takes more effort than believes he owns not to moan because they are at a _crime scene_ and it's more than unethical, it's immoral, and he shouldn't be this warm and then he does something shamelessly filthy with his tongue and Will stops fighting.

He always did have an unorthodox psychiatrist.

Will closes his eyes and breathes once, deeply, a ragged draw of air into unwilling lungs. The pendulum swings.

'This is not who you are.' He watches stitches unravel, bodies piece back together, skin reforming and blood oozing back inside the web of broken vessels. 'You are chosen, I have chosen you, and now you will fulfil your purpose.' They struggle, futilely, against their bonds, muffled shouts reflected in their wide eyes. He smiles. Their deaths are quick, simple strangulation, his hands squeeze. Just like the others. Death makes them beautiful, wipes away the heavy strain of living that uses time to carve their skin with wrinkles. 'You are my sacrifice, my offering. I will exalt you, convert you, show you the truth in death.’ The saw is heavy in his hand, a solid weight with twisted, jagged teeth, and he raises it to the girl. He squints through the first spray of blood as he begins to split her slender body in half. The work is slow and hard going, but he must persevere, and he does, hacking his way through, sinew, bone, organs and careful, _he wouldn't want to spoil the meat_. He repeats the action on the boy, before preparing the needle. Black thread burns his fingers and he begins his masterpiece, stitch by stitch by stitch. ‘You are not twins, but you will become them at my command, in accordance with the stars. This … Is my design ...’ He gasps for breath like a diver resurfacing, scrabbling at the edges of someone else’s reality. There is a new voice in his head, deep, male, and it laughs and whispers about the stars and Will wants to believe him. Virgo, Libra, Scorpio, Capricorn. Round and round the garden, like a teddy bear.

Jack’s eyes are dark and piercing and his brows are drawn together. Will shudders and focuses on breathing. His tongue feels like lead, a heavy weight in his mouth and his words are sloppy as they fall from his dry lips. ‘The stars.’ He sees the confusion, feels the weight of everyone’s drowning expectations, their emotions swirling around him a brightly coloured cloud of confusion that lodges tendrils in his mind. ‘Look at them, actually _look_.’ It takes Katz less than a minute.

‘These … Aren’t quite the same as our constellations?’ Will attempts to nod, if his twitching judder can be counted as nodding, eyes flickering around the stark white walls of the hospital room. Jack sucks in a breath that whistles quietly through his teeth.

‘So?’ So they chorus, in his head and he wants to run and hide and bury himself in his arms. Fingers tug at his strings and he begins to dance, jerking, unfluid movements that are so very, very beautiful, even as his mind falls apart and reality becomes his dreams.

‘There are very few places that can calculate what the stars would have looked like 4000 years ago.’ Recognition dawns in his eyes. Shoes squeak against the linoleum. The lights are too bright, white, piercing through his skull and burning his retinas. Hospitals make him uncomfortable at the best of times.

Wind him up and watch him go.

‘Someone get me a list of every planetarium on the Eastern seaboard. _Now!_ ’ It takes a second for the movement to kick in, the flurry of motion and activity as everyone in the room hurries to sate the beast, voices buzzing. Will’s head throbs. He buries it into the soft wool of a broad shoulder and tries not to look as broken as he feels. He fails, he knows. He tries not to long for the cool interior of his lecture hall or the warmth of his living room or the stillness of a familiar office, mezzanined, quiet. He wonders, half hearted, when the question stopped being _How sane is Will Graham?_ , and started being _How many more cases can we squeeze out of him before he breaks completely?_ There is a moment, a brief, fleeting moment, where Jack catches his gaze, and Will feels something like hesitant gratitude before someone brings him his list and Will is finally allowed to slump. There is an offer to drive him home that he knows he probably should accept it, but he shakes his head and stumbles away, seeking the solace he needs after the daily flood of emotions.

Dogs are so straightforward. Their emotions are pure, simplistic, block colours, without the complex ties that always seem to be attached to humans. He walks them, relishes in the peace they bring, padding paws and panting breaths. He fills their bowls and makes himself something that may have once been chicken, that he would no doubt turn his nose up at and insist on cooking something with a French name and unpronounceable ingredients. He wants to laugh but decides he's crazy enough as it is. The paracetamol are dry against his tongue but he swallows diligently. His mind swims. He considers picking up the phone. He considers going out. He considers crying, curled up in his bed. Instead he collapses in his well worn (threadbare) armchair with a finger (bottle) of whiskey and Winston's head in his lap.

He falls asleep to dream of blood and glassy eyes, the tang of death heavy in his mouth and a gnawing hunger in his stomach.

* * *

The next murder is messy. There is no finesse, no symbology, but Will knows it is him. He knows they are tracking him, hunting him down, and his work shows it, erratic and slapdash. Will's mind drinks in the chaos and revels in it.

Cancer.

'This is quite the arterial spray ...' Katz is bent over the floor, measuring the bloody splatters with intelligent eyes. Will nods jerkily and slips off his glasses. He misses his pocket and the plastic frames clatter to the floor. Everyone stops and watches and his hands quake.

'He ... uh ...' His tongue trips on the words. _Axed._ 'While the victim was still alive.' Zeller pulls a face and Katz nods, dark eyes fixed on him. He stares at the body over her shoulder.

'You ok?' Will laughs, short and hysterical, broken.

'Have I ever been _ok_?' There's no answer. He doesn't expect one. The second hand on his watch is deafening, tick, tick, tick. Jack offers him the chance to catch the killer, Will declines. Chases are exciting, clean, the end of the hunt is messy and ugly (and beautiful, but he doesn't need Jack knowing that). He's seen enough to know the man. Blonde, young, short, big hands. The wild look in his eyes. He doesn't need to see him in cuffs. He brushes off Katz and stumbles away, barely ducking under the tape. The deep voice murmurs sullenly in his head and then stops. Will knows he should enjoy the rare moment of blissful silence, tells himself he enjoys it, anything but face the truth (He's grown rather attached to the whispers, the countless insane who tell him the best way to drown someone or hide a body or inject poison).

He drives without driving, eyes barely focused, letting his hands follow muscle memory. He ends up outside his house. Of course he does, there's no where else he'll run to, no other sanctuary, not even his dogs. He shuffles up to his doorstep, head hung as he knocks and waits. He feels like a naughty school child summoned to the head master's office. He's intruded, unannounced and it's rude and he hates rudeness but Will needs him and he'll deal with the repercussions later. Eventually the door swings open and there he is, impeccable as always, shirt sleeves rolled up and waistcoat discarded. Will sees his face crease into a smooth smile, dark eyes piercingly intense. He lives for that smile, for the soft reassurances and gentle caresses. He would be hopelessly lost without him, an abandoned pet left to die, an untied boat drifting out into an ocean.

'Will, a lovely surprise. Do come in.' If he's angry it doesn't show, but his mask is so very good, so very smooth that not even Jack, dear old Uncle Jack, can see past it. He nods and follows dumbly, a dog called to heel. He helps him take off his jacket (ever the gentleman), hanging it next to a lavish greatcoat as if it belongs there, and it's a ridiculous(ly accurate) metaphor, scruffy, tatty, man made fibres placed in the shadow of smooth expensive wool. He leads him into the kitchen, the heart of the house, the throne room of his kingdom, and what a kingdom. A bottle of red is breathing on the counter and the light spills through it making it glow a dull crimson. Blood, Will thinks dimly, how fitting.

_He's been watching him for a while from his car, watching as his mouth opens with words that are undoubtedly too loud and undoubtedly, inherently rude, stomach bulging over regulation pants in a way that makes Will grimace. He's stacking shelves, something that even a simple brain like his should be able to handle, but some how he's messing it up, the bottles of fluorescent energy drink are all wrong and the cartons of milk are tainted and maybe it's just knowing who has been holding them. For one glorious second he sees the world through his eyes and everything clicks into place. Fancy and French, he would bet on it. Red wine, sautéed vegetables. He could almost taste it._

_A woman with two children enters the store and he watches, as he always does, as she approaches him with a friendly smile and open eyes. He brings her to near tears. All she wanted to know was where the toilet was. Perfect, Will thinks, you're perfect. He'll be pleased._

He reaches into one sleek cupboard and retrieves two glasses, shirt fabric shifting against his skin. He admires it absently, the shift of coiled muscles. Deadly, he knows. 'Is there anything you came to talk to me about Will, or would you just prefer some company?' Always questions. He can't switch it off, no more than Will can. 'I trust Jack Crawford is still treating you well.' There is a hidden note to his voice, a dark dangerous tone that makes Will shiver. His tongue flickers over his lips, wetting them, and he watches his eyes dart towards the action, watching it predatorily.

_It's nearly dark by the time he finally disappears into the bowels of the shop, re-emerging with a leather jacket slung over his garish polo, and he no doubt thinks it looks cool. Will thinks he looks like a stuffed turkey, an oddly appropriate image. He slips out of his car and follows him, careful not to look suspicious. He's nowhere near refined enough yet, but the idiot is so caught up in his phone that he barely notices. Eventually he slips a small white box out of his pocket, fumbling out a stick of nicotine, turning down the nearest alleyway. Will almost crows with delight. He's making this easy._

_The leather gloves stick to his skin, but he knows it's necessary. His feet splash through grimy puddles and his blood sings in his ears and he's never felt so **alive**. Here everything is so simple, cat and mouse, predator and prey, natural selection, survival of the fittest. He barely notices until his hands are wrapped around his rubbery neck, eyes bulging and veins popping and Will finally understands. Weak fingers claw at his jacket and delightfully pathetic mewls escape from the back of his throat. Will isn't broken, he isn't the mouse any more, he's strong, and it's such an utterly powerful feeling when the body in front of him puffs out it's last rancid breath and slumps to the ground._

_Killing does feel good. Will can understand where God is coming from._

Will nods slowly as if it's an answer and carefully slips the bag from his shoulder. His hands shake as he holds it out and he silently curses his traitorous limbs. He raises a thin brow, lips quirked into the faintest smirk as he relieves Will of the bag. He shuffles on the spot, eyes flickering as he waits. He just hopes they are a good enough offering, worthy enough to earn him the praise and attention he craves. Tantalisingly slowly the freezer bags are pulled out, clear sides stained red. A liver, a slab of thigh and the crowning glory. A heart. A strange token of love really, if what he feels can possibly have a name, that name.

_The first incision is messy, crude. He knows what Jack will say. Looks like we've got another admirer. If only he knew. The scalpel is sharp enough to slice open clammy flesh, delve below the layers of fatty tissue and shrivelled muscles to reveal quivering organs below. Keep the blade pointed up. Damage the organs, you ruin the meat. He slices out his trophies, deposits them into clear plastic bags that he prays won't leak in his car or he may have some awkward explaining to do to Jack._

_The drive out of Baltimore had never been longer._

_He finds a field, far enough away that he won't be disturbed, but close enough to civilisation that it will no doubt be discovered. Eventually. He drags out the corpse, suddenly understanding his hatred of rigor mortis. It takes a huge amount of effort to resew his stomach back together and Will is already regretting his choice of a public display. But it is not for him, so he continues, wrestles a dead body on to all fours and forces his head down into the trough of pig swill. The corkscrew is heavy in his hands and he almost passes out, ramming it inside the greying skin but finally it's done and Will is pleased. It's by no means perfect, but he thinks the humour will be appreciated._

_The Ripper saw his victims as pigs after all._

Will watches his face light up, nimble fingers playing over the fresh meat, probing and poking. The cuts are not faultless, not like his, will never be like his, but he seems pleased, a master acknowledging his apprentice. He carefully takes them, studies them in the low light, and nods, once. Will swells with pride.

'Ah William. You do spoil me so.' It's a lie, and they both know (if anything it's the other way around), but it's so sweet and convincing that Will allows himself, for one foolish moment, to be be like all the others, to believe. He smiles and it's all sharp, sharp teeth and Will wonders, wonders if one day they'll sink into him, tear away his flesh and lick his bones clean. An ethical butcher indeed. 'I think perhaps a nice Chateaubriand is in order.' Will nods, dumbly, because his French is poor and recipes are poorer, mostly involving baked beans and reconstituted chicken.

He is pitiful and knows it.

The liver and heart are carefully packaged, placed inside the fridge next to a pair of kidneys that Will realises are probably not from a pig. He does(n't) want to know where they are really from, which pathetic soul they were carved out of. The steak is placed near reverently on a chopping board and Will feels another laugh bubble up inside him, threatening to break the air, as he realises the terrifying domesticity of it all. He wonders how long he has left, how long before his dam breaks and he loses what little part of himself he has left. A part of him (the sensible part, if he possesses one of those) tells him that this was all meant to be, that this has been planned out, orchestrated, that _this is his design_ , but he ignores it because he doesn't want to struggle, he wants to give in, three piece suits and dark eyes, and the voices in his head thunder.

A warm hand wraps around his wrist, tugging him towards the spotless counter and he admires the way it fits around his thin bones. It could break them, if it was that way inclined, a simple application of pressure, a slight twist, a sickening(ly beautiful) crack. A part of him wishes it would, wishes he would just put him out of his misery, a dying animal writhing in pain. But that is not how he works. He will break Will's mind, piece by fractured piece, disassemble him and reshape him, mould him into something truly beautiful, truly worthy. And Will will love every accursed second of it, because he was _made_ for this.

There is a head on his shoulder and hair tickling his cheek and a body pressed into his back and he struggles for a moment to remember where he is. The knife glints wickedly in the soft light, because a dull blade would never do, and even if it is just carrots in his kitchen Will understands that he is being prepared, conditioned for the day when his metamorphosis is complete and he can step out into the world and not be afraid. He will stop fighting and just let the darkness consume him and be entirely, utterly whole. His cuts are imperfect, crude and rushed, but there are still whispered praises in his ear, kind and encouraging, a flutter of kisses over his pulse point and a playful nip at the hinge of his jaw. He gasps and drowns in cologne that's so expensive it hurts and he needs space, needs to run, flee, escape because he doesn't belong here but the hands over his are a little too tight and distantly he hears his name and then there's blood on his hands and tears in his eyes and if he could just breath-

They sauté carrots and roast potatoes and Will thinks he must have the patience of a saint to put up with his inelegant bumbling. Perhaps one day he would know the name of the wine on the counter without looking. Perhaps one day he could tell exactly what was on his plate purely by taste alone. Perhaps one day he would wear three piece suits and have dark, dark eyes and an empty smile and an insatiable hunger, but today is not that day. He still has no idea what is in his wine glass or on his plate and he's still wearing ratty plaid and blue eyes and a half smile that tells so much and so little. Time is a great healer.

He's ushered into the dining room by a hand on his back (artist's hands, surgeon's hands, killer's hands), placed in a seat at the ebony table, told to wait. He studies the centre piece, macabre in its beauty, studies the ridiculous amount of cutlery in front of him (and really how many forks does he need?), studies the clean edges of the dark room and considers quipping about whether he always eats like a member of a royal family but the words tangle in his mouth and clutch at his lips. Maybe it was for the best. He wouldn't want to be rude.

A plate is slid in front of him, food carefully positioned, garnished, presented. He is reminded of the old master's great works, Caravaggio's Supper at Emmaus, Beethoven's Ninth.

'Chateaubriand with herb roasted potatoes, julienned carrots and bérnaise sauce.' Will's mouth waters and a hunger scrapes at his insides with sharp pointed claws. He watches him sit with a flourish that hurts, and waits, because it's approval he craves, the crease of eyes in a smile, the gratification and acceptance. He knows and Will knows he knows which doesn't quite explain why he is taking so long cutting the meat and then it's clear. He's pushing, testing Will's boundaries, tipping him closer to the brink. Will wonders if this is what love is.

He raises the fork to his lips with a practised grace that makes Will shift uncomfortably because no one has the right to look that good eating. It's entrancing, watching the gleam of silver disappear between dusky lips, eyelids droop half shut, head tilt back as if he's at the peak of ecstasy and suddenly Will is shifting for a completely different reason, frantically clawing at the images his twisted mind is serving him because now is not the time. Later, perhaps, when the world is dark and still, lit by moonlight, the witching hour, and Will is sure that they are the only two humans left alive, then he will be devoured, then he will open up. But not now. He removes the fork slowly, chewing as if he's eating ambrosia and not some uncivil shop worker, and Will wants to climb into his rib cage and cradle his beating heart and never let go. He looks up and stares deep into Will's eyes, and he's never seen them look so alive, shining orbs so dark they might as well be bottomless pits for Will to get lost in. There's a spot of dark sauce dripping down his chin, looking for all the world like a trickle of blood, thick and red and alive and it's like Will has been blind but now his eyes have opened and everything makes a wonderfully perfect sense, a complete loop, a crystal clear sheet of glass.

 

 

 _Yes,_ he thinks, _yes I can see you now._

**Author's Note:**

> Rôto Sans Pareil - The Roast without Equal. A 15 bird roast made up of a bustard stuffed with a turkey, chicken, duck, guinea fowl, teal, woodcock, partridge, plover, lapwing, quail, thrush, lark, ortolan bunting and, finally, a warbler.  
> [The Zodiac](http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zodiac)  
> [Caravaggio's Supper at Emmaus](http://bettybaroque.files.wordpress.com/2011/02/caravaggio-supper-at-emmaus.jpg)  
> [Beethoven's Ninth](http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=_-mvutiDRvQ)  
> [Chateaubriand Reciepe](http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/CHATEAUBRIAND-241304)  
> Shout out to Brian Fuller for his amazing poetic language in Hannibal ~~which i totally didn't steal~~
> 
> Also a massive thanks to [this lovely lady](http://archiveofourown.org/users/catgirl_luna) for sticking by me while I wrote this. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, any comments are much appreciated!


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